“Dante ran surveillance, including a half-dozen kitchen conversations. On the chart, we have favorite snacks, drinks, colors, comfort items and even their preferred type of movies.” He moved the pointer along each category, then pointed at Kennedy’s name. “Kennedy thinks cilantro tastes like soap. No cilantro martinis for her. Alyssa prefers sea salt on caramel. May likes salty snacks rather than sweet, particularly—”
“Nachos,” Chickie finished for him.
Con nodded.
“So what are we doing with all this, boss man?” Mason spoke with a slight edge of irritation, as if this was wasting his time. Steele could see his point—if Izzy wasn’t on that list, he wouldn’t give a damn either.
“Whatever it is, it’s either the most thoughtful thing any of us have ever done or the creepiest,” Chase said.
“This proves Blackout Charlie can conduct surveillance on anyone, including their houseguests.” Steele groaned.
“That isn’t the point. The plan? We set up the main living area for optimal comfort.” Con clicked to the next slide, which showed a detailed floor plan, wielding the pointer like he was conducting a black op. “Multiple seating options, appropriate lighting, temperature control and a snack station.”
The floor plan looked like something an interior designer might create, complete with all exits marked. Even during family movie night, old habits died hard.
“Sinner’s handling the popcorn situation,” Con continued. “Three different flavors, plus his special butter blend.”
Sinner looked a little lighter at the nod to his culinary skills.
“Mason’s on blanket and pillow duty.”
“Why does that have to be me?”
“Because you can use your undercover skills to go shopping.” Con’s tone brooked no argument, and Mason sat back with a sigh.
“Our master of all things tech, Dante, you’ll be managing the audio-visual setup and backup entertainment options. Chase, you’re coordinating with the ladies on movie selection.”
“What about me?” Steele asked.
“You’re on Izzy duty,” Con replied simply. “Make sure she’s comfortable, has everything she needs and doesn’t feel overwhelmed.”
The casual way Con said it, like it was just another tactical assignment, made Steele’s chest tighten with something warm and unfamiliar.
“I wonder if Alpha team ever did anything like this,” he mused.
“They can take notes from our playbook if they need them.” Con’s answer had everyone cracking a grin. All the Blackoutteams might be fighting for the same thing, but they still wanted to be the top of the food chain, higher than the other units.
Sinner surveyed the room with his usual stoic expression, taking in the profiles on the screens and the earnest faces of his teammates. “I’m staying away from you guys. Don’t want to catch what you all got.”
“What’s that?” Steele asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“Feelings.”
The word hung in the air like an accusation. Steele looked around the table at his teammates—Dante and Chase had their heads together, discussing the plans for the women they loved, then Chickie announced that he would scroll through romantic comedy movie recommendations. Dante suggested board games and books, which they all agreed would be a hit with the ladies.
Mason actually took notes on what stores to hit up for matching pillows and blanket options. And Con, their unflappable leader and the man who’d fallen first, wore an expression of intensity on par with what he brought to mission planning.
Sinner wasn’t wrong. They all had it bad.
The realization should have been terrifying. For years, their strength had come from their ability to compartmentalize, to separate emotion from duty, to function as a unit without the risk factors that came with civilian attachments.
But looking at this room—at grown men planning a movie night like it was a special ops mission, at the genuine care behind every ridiculous detail—Steele couldn’t bring himself to see it as a weakness.
Maybe this was evolution. Maybe this was what it looked like when a team of warriors finally found something worth fighting for beyond duty and country.
His thoughts drifted to Izzy, probably upstairs right now working on her book, channeling her trauma and fear into something that had meaning. The woman who’d survived captivity and built herself back up from nothing, who could beat a table full of Navy SEALs at poker and make him laugh even when the world was falling apart around them.
The woman he wanted to come home to.
